


One Summer Night

by Brumeier



Series: Bite Sized Fic [69]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Flashbacks, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Musicians, Nostalgia, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6927727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LJ Comment Fic for Seasons prompt: <i>Stargate Atlantis, Evan Lorne/any, endless summer nights.</i></p><p>In which John unknowingly meets Evan for the second time, and Evan recounts their first meeting...in 1978.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Summer Night

**Author's Note:**

> There's a blink-and-you-miss-it cameo from one half of the original Sentinel duo in here. ::grins:: Just because.

Rodney’s friend Teyla was on stage at The Blue Lily, wearing a navy blue dress that looked vintage 1940s. She had a flower in her hair and a jazz quartet backing her up as she sang.

_I'm just like an apple on a bough_  
_And you're going shake me down somehow_  
_But what's the use, you've cooked my goose_  
_Cause you took advantage of me_

“She’s really good,” John said. “She could sing professionally.”

Rodney nodded. “She’s had offers. Always turns them down. Something about the purity of singing for pleasure, which is ridiculous because she could be making a fortune with that voice.”

_Here am I with all my bridges burned_  
_Just a babe in arms where you're concerned_  
_So lock the doors and call me yours_  
_Cause you took advantage of me_

John was enjoying the show. Not just for Teyla’s amazing voice, or the sinuous, sensuous way she moved her body as she sang, but also because Rodney was playing footsie with him under the table. John wasn’t big on public displays – some habits were hard to break – and Rodney had respected that without either of them having to talk about it, but a little thing like having Rodney’s ankle hooked over his was enough to make heat rise in his face.

Teyla segued into another song. 

“So how about you?” John asked. “Any record companies knocking at your door?”

“Not everyone with talent deserves to be foisted off on the public,” Rodney replied disdainfully. “I play for myself, not to get a gig on _The Tonight Show_.”

Well, that was a contradictory sore spot John would have to remember to avoid in the future. It was odd. He was getting to know Rodney’s body really well, had a firm grasp on all the man’s erogenous zones, but he knew so little about Rodney himself. How old he was when he started playing piano, if he had any family, what he did for a living. John wasn’t sure where the thing between them was going, but he was fairly certain that if they were going to move forward with it he needed to know more than the fact that Rodney had super-sensitive nipples.

“That sounded bitchy. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.” Rodney nudged John with his shoulder.

“I’ll try to wait till I go to the bathroom to cry about it,” John replied with a grin. He wasn’t sure he was ready to delve too deep into things with Rodney, and humor was always a good default mode. Maybe after they’d been seeing each other a little longer he’d feel like he could ask the tough questions.

“You’re an idiot.” But even as he said that, Rodney dragged his foot up John’s shin and gave him a heated look.

They’d go back to Rodney’s place soon, and get to the best part of a new relationship: all the amazing sex. No need for deep, meaningful conversations in the bedroom.

Thoughts of Rodney laid out and naked on the bed were interrupted by the arrival of someone John didn’t know, standing quietly next to their table.

“Yes? What do you want?” Rodney asked.

The guy smiled, though he seemed nervous. “John? You probably don’t remember me.”

He was right about that, though there _was_ something familiar about him. He was good-looking, blue eyes a nice contrast to the dark hair, and dressed very conservatively in a black sweater and blue jeans. He had a messenger bag slung across his chest. 

“Friend of yours?” Rodney asked. 

He’d gone all stiff, and his foot wasn’t idly stroking John’s leg anymore. John didn’t know whether to be amused or offended.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember you,” John said to the guy.

“That’s okay. Evan Lorne.” He held out his hand. “I’m the artist-in-residence at the college. We met during the faculty mixer a couple of weeks ago.”

Rodney frowned. “Artist-in-residence? What is that?”

“It means I don’t normally teach – I’m a professional artist – but the college hired me for two semesters to share my art technique and knowledge of the art world with the students.” Evan eyed the empty chair. “Mind of I join you?”

“I do mind. Go away,” Rodney said.

“Please sit,” John said at the same time. That earned him a kick in the ankle, but Evan sat down, practically beaming.

“You must get this a lot, but it’s a real honor to meet you,” Evan said to John.

“I don’t think John is who you think he is,” Rodney said.

“Gee, thanks,” John replied.

“Actually, I met you for the first time twenty-six years ago. Just outside of Woodstock?”

“I never –” John started to say, but then he did the math. Twenty-six years ago, that was 1978. He had a flash of memory: orange VW bus, climbing a tree, and his mother’s smiling face.

“John? Are you okay?” Rodney had a hand on his arm, nothing but concern on his face, but John was barely aware of him at all.

“The bus broke down,” he said in a hesitant voice, and looked to Evan for confirmation. “I don’t remember much more than that.”

“I’ll never forget it,” Evan said.

*o*o*o*

**August 1978**

Evan had been fishing all day with Meadow and Billy – which was really just an excuse to wade in the pond, because it was so hot – and so he didn’t hear the big news until he got back, a string of smallish trout in one hand.

“Evvie! Did you hear?” His sister Stacia danced around him, barefoot, pigtails swinging. “It’s only the bestest thing!”

“What is it?” Any number of things could get Stacia whipped up into a frenzy of excitement: brownies, baby birds, getting picked to sing in the Circle. She was only six.

“Come see!” She tugged on his arm.

Evan took care of the fish first, dropping the whole line into the water trough behind their house so they wouldn’t turn rancid in the heat. Then he let Stacia drag him all the way up to the Main House.

And there it was, parked out by the woodshed. An orange VW bus with a name airbrushed across the side in bold blue letters. _The Grace King Experience_.

“She’s really here?” Evan asked in a hushed voice.

“Mr. Dan said her bus broke down, and they brought it here to fix it, and she’s inside!”

Evan reached out a tentative hand and touched the curvy letters with his fingertips. Grace King. She was like the unofficial mascot of the commune. There wasn’t one person who didn’t know the words to at least one of her songs. She was brave and beautiful, and her voice was like an angel.

The whole place was buzzing with the news. They’d be putting on a big meal that night, a celebration in honor of their unexpected visitor. Evan hung around the Main House, trying to catch a glimpse of her, but Granny Jean came out and chased him and the other kids away.

Evan ended up in a cool corner of the barn, making fairy houses for the little kids out of twigs and string and acorn caps. Stacia and Blair sang a mashup of Grace King songs while they and the other kids scratched out a fairy village on the dirt floor.

“Whatcha doing?”

A boy stood nearby, hands in the pockets of his cutoff shorts. He had floppy, dark hair and was even skinnier than String Bean, the old man that took care of the orchard.

“Making fairy houses. Wanna help?”

The boy joined them, and he picked up the technique really quickly. It wasn’t long before Stacia was making specific design demands and hanging over the kid’s shoulder. 

“Do you live here now?” Stacia asked. “What’s your name?”

“I’m John. My mom and I are just visiting. Our bus broke down.”

Evan looked up sharply at that. “Your mom’s Grace King?”

John shrugged, focused on the little house he was building. “Yeah.”

There were a million questions Evan wanted to ask. Did John get to travel to all the shows? How far had he traveled? What was Grace like when she wasn’t performing? Was his mother as amazing as she seemed? Was he with her when she went to Vietnam?

“Do you sing?” Blair asked. His curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail and he had little Cecily curled up in his lap.

John shook his head. “Nah. My mom says I can’t hold a tune in a bucket.”

“Do you live in the bus?” Meadow asked. All the kids had gathered around John, watching him with wide, curious eyes.

“No. I live with my dad. I’m just hanging out with my mom for the summer.”

“You’re pretty,” Stacia said. That made John blush. He finished up the fairy house and handed it to her, blushing even more when she kissed him on the cheek.

John spent all afternoon with them, making fairy houses and climbing trees and splashing around in the pond. He told them stories of life on the road with his mom, camping out in fields and staying with friends all over the country. He regaled them with tales of space and aliens, confident that one day he’d be an astronaut just like Buzz Aldrin.

He was the most worldly person Evan had ever met.

That night they had a big dinner outside, picnic tables loaded down with food that included the trout Evan had caught earlier in the day. Grace King sat at the table with Granny Jean and Mr. Kelly, and the other founding members of the commune. She was everything Evan had imagined: she smiled a lot, and she had a bawdy belly laugh, and she was almost as beautiful as Evan’s own mother. He couldn’t stop staring at her.

After dinner they had Circle. Some of the kids ran around trying to catch lightning bugs, or roasted marshmallows by the bonfire, but when Grace King brought out her guitar there was only one place Evan wanted to be. 

“Evvie, look!” Stacia pointed and Evan saw that John had a guitar, too. It was smaller than his mother’s, and he tuned it like a professional.

Even Evan’s mother was starstruck, her eyes glimmering with tears. “I hope you kids appreciate what a great thing we’re experiencing here,” she said.

Evan nodded. He got it, he really did.

“I can’t thank you all enough,” Grace King said to the assembled crowd. “You took us in, made us feel so at home, and asked for nothing in return. Well, you’re getting something anyway.”

She winked, and then started to play. John kept up with her chord for chord, though he left all the singing to his mother.

_Through the corridors of sleep_  
_Past the shadows dark and deep_  
_My mind dances and leaps in confusion._  
_I don't know what is real,_  
_I can't touch what I feel_  
_And I hide behind the shield of my illusion._

It was a song Evan was very familiar with; his mother owned every Simon and Garfunkel album. And Grace sang it with the same quick melody of the original, her fingers moving as fast as her mouth.

_So I'll continue to continue to pretend_  
_My life will never end,_  
_And flowers never bend_  
_With the rainfall._

Everyone sang along, and when she finished they all applauded and whistled.

“Thank you! That’s one of my favorite songs. I had the pleasure of meeting Paul Simon several years ago, and he’s such a dear man. And an amazing songwriter.” Grace King looked over at her son, her affection for him so clear. “Accompanying me tonight is my eldest boy, John Patrick. As fine a strummer as I’ll ever know.”

John grinned back at his mother. They did a dueling guitars thing, challenging each other to play faster and faster until John was biting his bottom lip and Grace King threw back her head, laughing uproariously.

“My son, ladies and gentlemen! Take a bow, John Patrick.”

John obediently stood up and made a little bow. Evan was impressed. He was really, really good. Evan himself didn’t have much in the way of musical talent, but he thought he was a pretty good artist. His mom made hippie art to sell in town, and did some sculpture from reclaimed objects, but she was just as skilled at more traditional landscapes and portraits.

“I’m going to get serious here for a minute,” Grace King said. “I’d like to sing for you the song I sang when I was out this way in 1969 for the Woodstock Festival. We may no longer have servicemen in Vietnam, but I can tell you that for those who were there, the struggle has never ended. This song is for them.”

Evan’s mother took hold of his hand. Of all Grace King’s anti-war songs, this was the one that affected her the most. He’d never known her to listen to it without crying.

_Dear Mama_  
_Well here I am again_  
_Writing you this letter_  
_In the best way that I can_

It was hard not to be moved by the song, one soldier’s letter to his mother detailing the horrible things he had to do in the war. The commune as a whole didn’t approve of military service, but Evan hadn’t made up his own mind about it. After all, if people hadn’t stood up to fight for what was right, the United States would still be a British colony.

_But I went along Mama,_  
_And tightly held my gun,_  
_And I raised my head up slightly_  
_And I tried to feel the sun._

There was no singing along this time. Everyone was solemnly listening, and more than one person had tears on their face. Evan’s mother was sniffling and squeezing his hand so, so tight.

_I realized then Mama_  
_Just what I had done_  
_And I cried so when I noticed_  
_He didn’t have a gun._

Even though Grace King must’ve sang that song a hundred times, she wasn’t unmoved by it either. The emotion, paired with the words, was almost painful to listen to.

_I’ll tell you something Mama,_  
_I don’t feel like a man._  
_I guess I never will now._  
_I guess I never can._

Evan’s mother wrapped her arms around him and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. He knew she worried that someday he’d go off to war, to fight an unknowable enemy in a foreign land far away. He couldn’t imagine doing that to her. Stacia and Evan were all she had, and he’d promised many times that he’d never, ever leave her.

When the song finished, Grace King hugged and kissed her son. There was applause, but it was more subdued. There wasn’t a single person at the commune that hadn’t been affected by the war in one way or another.

Grace King took requests after that, and gamely played her own songs and other people’s as well. No-one asked for another sad song, and the rest of the night seemed to stretch on endlessly, everyone singing along or dancing, having a great time. The adults passed around a hash pipe, and Stacia fell asleep with her head in Evan’s lap.

The VW bus rolled out the next day after breakfast, everyone gathered together to wave goodbye. Evan knew he’d never forget that day, not as long as he lived.

*o*o*o*

John didn’t remember the specifics of that summer, not like Evan did. He’d only been eight years old. But he remembered playing guitar with his mother, remembered her dancing barefoot in sundresses and feeding him chickpea salad sandwiches. Remembered her dropping him back home at the end of the summer and promising she’d be back to spend the holidays with him and Dave and their dad.

She’d died two months later.

“You lived on a commune?” Rodney asked Evan. He was holding John’s hand under the table.

“My mom and my sister still live there,” Evan said. “But John inspired me to see a little bit of the world. I’m glad I did. I’ve seen some amazing things. And then I came here, and found out that Grace King’s son was teaching at the same college as me. I couldn’t believe it!”

“Not many people make the connection,” John said. He had his father’s last name, and Patrick Sheppard had made sure his sons got as little press as possible.

“You could say I was a die-hard fan.” Evan dug around in his messenger bag, and pulled out an envelope. “I had a copy made. I thought you might like to have it.”

He slid the envelope across the table, and John had to let go of Rodney’s hand to open it. There was a picture inside, the color faded by time. In it John and his mother were playing guitar side-by-side, presumably at the commune. He was looking at her with unabashed adoration, and she was singing, mouth open and eyes closed.

The passage of years had dulled the pain, but the ache never went away. John didn’t even realize he’d been rubbing his hand over his chest until Rodney leaned in and pressed his hand over John’s.

“You okay?”

“It was just the two of us that summer,” John said, his throat tight. “She drove me around to all the places she’d done gigs, wanted me to meet all of the friends she’d made.”

He looked up at Evan, tried to picture the young boy he’d been all those years ago and failed. But the guy looked sympathetic, and sad.

“We had a candlelight service for her, when we heard she’d passed. She was an amazing woman. I never forgot that night, or how generous she was with her gift.”

“Thank you,” John said, with all sincerity. He was grateful for the picture, and for Evan’s memory of that long-ago summer night.

Up on stage, Teyla was still singing.

_Summertime and the livin' is easy_  
_Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high_  
_Oh, your daddy's rich and your ma is good lookin'_  
_So hush little baby, don't you cry_

**Author's Note:**

> **Song List**
> 
> [You Took Advantage of Me, Carmen Mcrae](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHAIfsfcmqA)
> 
> [ Flowers Never Bend with the Rainfall, Simon and Garfunkel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uRv4S0BPMik)
> 
> Dear Mama, Vita Steigmeier (Sadly there’s no place to listen to this amazing song, because my mother wrote it and only performed it at home.)
> 
> [ Summertime, Billie Holiday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYUqbnk7tCY)


End file.
